Page 4 of Please, Sir

I drop my awl in my bag, swipe a hand down my thigh and share a handshake with each of them before handing them an order form. Guy, the older man, has been ordering saddles from me for years. Before the farmers market was open, he’d visit me at my storefront downtown, Turner Saddlery. Now though, he exclusively sees me here, because he lives just up the road from the market. Today, Guy has his friend Marv with him, and Marv tells me he’s looking to get a custom saddle as a gift for his granddaughter.

“She ride a lot?” I ask, making notes in the margin of his completed form.

“Some,” Marv says, “but I know my son is trying to encourage her to ride more.”

I make a few notes and look up at him. “Once we get her a saddle that fits her horse well, that’ll help. My daughter Jolene and I ride together a few times a week. She loves it.”

Marv fishes his hand around a white paper bag with translucent grease stains on it. He plucks one of JuniperEllington’s sample jars of jam out, and sets it on the table before diving back in. Finally he produces a beignet, and proceeds to dunk his pastry in jam while we run down the order form together an additional time.

Once he’s paid up and we’re all set, Dean puts the form in my bag for safe keeping, and I take another peek at the tables, still on the hunt for that dark ponytail.

“You and Jo Jo still riding together, huh?” Dean asks, getting to his feet, ducking under my tent to exit my booth.

With my awl back in my hand, I return my focus to the belt I’m working on. “Yeah, it’s just about the only thing we got left. The markets and horseback riding were ours, I always thought no matter how hard those preteen and teenage years got, that we’d hang onto our traditions. But,” I say, blowing out a breath as I lift my gaze one last time, looking for my daughter in the crowd of Bluebellers. “Only horseback riding is all we got left.”

“Well, as long as you got that together, you got something,” Dean offers, uncertainty curving his eyebrows. “Hell, I don't know. I don’t have kids of my own. Just sixty loaners a few months a year.” He pats me on the back as he drifts off toward the fudge, leaving me with a slowly falling sun at my back, and a file full of new orders.

After packing everything up, I’m just about to ask Dorthea where in the world my daughter is when I spot the swish of a dark ponytail off in the distance, near the barn. She’s chatting away, animatedly, in a way that makes my chest tight because I never see that sparkle in her eyes or that smile she’s giving that wom—oh shit.

It’s the fucking knockout from three months back. The one behind the barn having a panic attack.

The one with the splinter.

Today she’s wearing Daisy Dukes, a little white tank top tucked into them, with fawn colored Tecovas eating up most of her calves, exposing firm, shapely thighs. Her shiny golden hair is pulled back around her face into two braids, the rest of it falling down her back. With her thumbs looped through her shorts, she throws her head back in laughter, exposing white teeth and a slender curve of her neck that makes my mouth water.

But I stay focused, and watch the interaction the petite blonde has with my daughter. From what it looks like, my daughter… looks up to this woman. I scratch at the back of my head, trying to remember if we exchanged names that day but… no, of course we didn’t.

I haven’t asked a woman her name with the intent of interest since Janie.

Their conversation wraps up, the beauty links arms with Leah Mitchell, Bluebell High’s principal, and I lose sight of them as they wander their way through the tents.

Jo Jo, in long jeans and a Turner Saddlery t-shirt, turns, her eyes snapping to mine, even this far away. The happiness on her face drains, but she gives me a small smile before dropping her eyes to her boots and heading my way.

She doesn’t say much but takes a leg of the table in one hand, folding it up with ease the way she and I have done together so many times before. I put my tools away, give Hudson my best, and in silence, Jo Jo and I walk to my truck. Once the AC has been cranking for a few minutes and we’re up the road, I poke the bear a little.

“Who was that lady you were talking to right before we packed up?” I ask, fiddling with the AC vent like I’m on a first date and nervous. But goddamn Jo Jo does make me nervous. I want a good relationship with my daughter, for Christ’s sake. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, but now it feels like allI do is annoy her. “It looked like you two were having a nice conversation.”

“That’s my health teacher, Miss Riley. She’s the new cheer coach at school,” Jo Jo replies, her tone unusually steady, as if the conversationisn’tannoying her. My pulse skips with excitement that maybe this will be the drive that we talk like father and daughter, that maybe we’ll have a nice afternoon.

“Health. That’s got to be an interesting?—”

“I was just telling her today that I’m trying out for cheerleading this year.”

Thankfully we come to a stop, or else I may’ve been liable to slam on the brakes in the middle of downtown Bluebell. “Cheerleading?” I question, plucking my hat from my head, setting it down on the open seat between us. I rifle a dirty hand through my hair, my eyes on the red light above us. “You haven’t even done dance since you were five, Jo. Are you–”

“So? I haven’t watched a Disney movie since I was five, does that mean I can’t watch them now?” she retorts, her tone already escalating to teentrum levels.

“Now I wasn’t saying that,” I start, happy the light has turned green. Accelerating, I flip on my blinker and caution a glance to her side of the cab. “All I meant was, I didn’t know you were interested in cheering, that’s all.”

“As if you would know what I’m interested in,” she mumbles underneath her breath, her words leaving a painful echo between my ribs. “Well I’m doing it anyway. Practice is every day after school until 5.”

“Everyday?” I ask, thinking about Tuesdays and Thursdays, the two weekdays that we go riding together. “Tuesdays and Thursdays are our horseback riding–”

“I know, Dad,” she retorts with such sharpness in her tonethat my chest actually aches. “I’m not doing that anymore. I’m cheering.”

We’re at another light now, and I guess it turns green because someone behind us honks, and a moment later, Jo Jo says, “hello? The light.”

I punch it, and try to find the silver lining, despite the burst of pain in my chest. “Alright,” I tell her as our home comes into view down the road. “Maybe you can start coming to the market with me again on the weekend.” I keep my eyes ahead. “We can still ride on weekends.”

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